


stop the clocks; we're killing time

by Anonymous



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: All the older drivers are profs, Alternate Universe - College/University, Entire Grid Appears, Gen, M/M, On Hiatus, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21522904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Alex and Lando start second year at Ecclestone University. You can't find love when you're looking for it—and truly, neither of them are looking.Gratuitous library all-nighters, identity crises, intramural sports, fights for access to mental health services, and holiday season bonding. Along with their roommates Max and George, Charles and his entourage, and Lance, it's boys' week every week.
Relationships: Alexander Albon/Lando Norris
Comments: 18
Kudos: 72
Collections: Anonymous





	1. August

**Friday, 30 August, 2019 - Portier Residence**

It’s a nicer room than he had first year.  _ God, _ it’s a nicer room. Alex can’t help a grin splitting his face as he takes the first steps into his residence suite.  _ My own room. No more communal bathroom. My own kitchen; no more running to the caf at 1AM. _

“It’s perfect; I love it,” he declares to his new roommate. Max has been following him down the hall, pulling a cart piled with the boys’ suitcases and a few boxes. He’s being about as cordial as Alex could expect for a man he met five minutes ago in the res lobby. 

“You don’t mind the end unit, do you?” their residence advisor had asked. Max squinted at the painfully bright move-in-day nametag resting a little crookedly on the man’s shirt.  _ Stoffel. _ “You’ve got the same floorspace as everyone else, but Portier’s an old building, so there’s a utility closet with a water heater opening into your bathroom. We might have to drop in for maintenance, but most of the time, this only means you get hot water faster than anyone else on the floor.” 

Alex shrugs, smiles, and nods. “I’m not fussy,” he proclaims.

Besides, now that he’s here, the view from the fifth floor end unit is lovely. One bedroom faces south, over the river flowing through campus, and the other watches west over a small copse of oak trees and lawn. Both open into a small shared kitchen with a bathroom off to one side. It’s  _ miles  _ better than the first-year residence Alex was used to, and he feels an urge to close his eyes and bask in the newfound luxury. But Max is there, a new roommate to not embarrass himself in front of, so he doesn’t.

“You don’t mind if I take the south facing room, do you?” Alex asks Max, pushing open the bedroom doors to peek inside. The afternoon sunlight breaking through the windows is beautiful, even healthy.  _ Oh my god, I can keep plants in here!  _ “I think both rooms are the same size.”

His suitemate shrugs impassively. “Go for it, I won’t spend enough time in my room to care about the view.”

“Oh…” Alex flounders for a second. “Thanks. Where do you usually hang out then?”

“You know the cafe in the student centre?” Max points off in some random direction. “My sister and I both work there during the school year. It keeps me a little too busy to look out my window.”

“The Double Infuser! I’ve missed those soy lattes all summer.” He smiles crookedly, hoping Max will hold a conversation.  _ Establish a rapport, please, I’m begging. _

Max smiles back, and Alex can’t decide if it’s tentative or just weak. “Well, I’ll be there to make more for you starting tomorrow.” Grabbing his suitcase and a well-taped cardboard box, he disappears into his room and closes the door. 

Alex takes that moment to close his eyes and bask. First year hadn’t been the res experience from hell, but it’s nice to have some privacy this time. It’s nice to know what’s going on, and it’s going to be  _ especially  _ nice to not have to wear flip-flops in the shower. 

Two semesters into a sociology degree at Ecclestone University, Alex doesn’t really know what he’s doing with his life, but it’s good to have somewhere pleasant to live while he does it. All he knows about Max is what he picked up from a smattering of texts exchanged over the summer: business student, also second year. International student. Gamer? And apparently, family-oriented and very busy.

It’s his turn to haul his suitcase into his room, followed by half a dozen boxes. He takes his time to unpack, bumping his head on the ceiling as he climbs his loft bed to smooth a sheet across the mattress. Clothes and towels get folded into the closet, photos of his pets are pinned to the corkboard, an extension cord powers his laptop and phone, a few books and a thesaurus get slotted into his bookshelf by the desk under his bed. A small photo of his siblings gets taped to the wall beside his bed.

In a spare moment, he digs his lanyard from his backpack and slides his new keycard into the card-holder pocket, and shoves it all into his pocket. 

He knows the drill now. It’s his second time around, and this time he knows not to buy his textbooks until lectures have started. Alex folds himself into his desk chair, spins to face the room, and simply looks for a moment. His walls are empty, but over the next few months they’ll earn their dressing. He can close his eyes and see it now: an Ecclestone Angels banner from the home opener game; a vintage poster from the bookstore clearance; a dozen post-its with reminders for midterms and papers. He’s not homesick, and he knows he probably won’t be. He loves school, the good, the bad, and the ug—something crunches under his shoe and he peers down at a few stray staples tangled in the carpet, doubtlessly left by the last resident of this room. The ugly. There could be a bit of ugly. 

Alex writes post-it #1:  ** _borrow vacuum, steam cleaner. buy slippers_ ** and slaps it on the wall.  _ So it begins. _

**Same day - Beau Rivage Apartments**

_ Thump, thump, thump. _ “George! Let me in!”  _ Thump, thump. _ “Let me iiiiiiiinn!” 

“I’m coming! Don’t kick down the door!”

Lando grins when he hears the muffled voice through the locked door. “My hands are full!” 

The door swings open, George peeking around it, and Lando falls through the threshold, burdened with a backpack, two gym bags, and a suitcase. “Oh my god, finally. I thought my arms were about to fall off.” He drops everything, jumping at his friend. “Georgie Porgie! It’s been a long summer,” Lando laments, falling into the long-suffering grasp of his housemate. 

George wraps his arms around his friend and rocks him back and forth. “Oh, you poor sweetie, vacationing in Peru must have taken so much out of you,” he coos, patting Lando’s hair. 

“No, it was amazing,” Lando says, voice muffled in the hug against George’s shirt. “You got back last week? How was your summer? How’s Jamie? Did you get to take any breaks or did you work the whole time? Did you get groceries?”

George grins, turning Lando out of his arms and moving to close the door. “I’ve been back a couple of days, and yes, the fridge is stocked. Summer was busy as hell but my internship was great and I got a few weekends away at the beach. Jamie’s lovely, as usual.” The boys beam at each other for a second. “Feels good to be back to normal, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Lando says simply. He leaves his bags on the floor and wanders over to the floor-to-ceiling windows covering one whole wall of the penthouse apartment’s living room. “I missed the view,” he says, gazing across the city. It’s a stupidly nice apartment the boys live in, and he tends to take it for granted except when he takes in this view. The uni campus is in the foreground, with the city’s downtown core fading into the distance. “I missed you, too,” he adds casually. 

“Same, actually. You ready for round two at the Ecc?” George asks, dropping onto the couch as he pulls out his phone.    
  


“Better than being at home,” Lando shrugs. He  _ does _ feel better starting second year than he did starting his first. “Sports Psychology” means something to him now, and he’s starting to feel confidence in this major that he picked straight out of high school as a desperate bid to study  _ anything  _ interesting. 

First year would have been a more stressful experience if Lando hadn’t had George by his side. The two of them were loosely connected family friends, who hadn’t grown up together, but their parents worked in the same circles. But when Lando chose Ecclestone, where George was already a year deep in a Psych degree, the Norris and Russell families put their ridiculously deep pocketbooks together to “keep the boys out of trouble” by housing them together. What “trouble” was, no one was really sure, but George kept Lando grounded, and Lando reminded George to breathe, and that was as much as anyone could ask. 

It’s just an extra perk of parents with too much money and not enough time that their home is a penthouse apartment within walking distance of campus. It was brand new twenty years ago, but the floorspace is generous. Lando knows he’s being spoiled, but who would say no to rooftop access?

“We’ll have to set up the deck furniture and the gazebo,” George reminds him from his repose on the couch, seemingly reading his mind. 

“Are Charles and Pierre back in town yet? We should have them over,” Lando suggests, cheekily adding: “we can make them do it.”

“Boys’ week every week,” George says, miming the clinking of a raised glass.

“Boys’ week every week,” Lando echoes. “Classes start Tuesday for you too, right? We’ll set things up on the weekend, then.”

He’s relieved to be back. The apartment had been empty all summer while George and Lando were gone for the summer, to work an internship and to go backpacking, respectively.  _ Anything to reduce the time I spend at home, _ Lando thinks glumly. He’s loath to admit it, but he’s fonder of this oversized apartment after one year than he is of the oversized estate he spent the last 18 years in. 

George is fussy about keeping the apartment clean, preferring to do his drinking and make his messes on other people’s property, so they don’t host any parties here. But that means that instead, these rooms are full of the softer moments: the long table spaghetti dinners with his volleyball team, the Ghibli film marathons leaving both Lando and George sniffly, the cups of tea he brings to George’s room and the cans of Monster that he takes out, the Carly Rae Jepsen dance parties he unapologetically hosts alone with the living room surround sound—the unbittered celebrations of the stupid shit.

So slowly, it dawns on him that he’s really back, and he doesn’t have to go home until Thanksgiving. Summer was great, but some stability and scheduling would do him some good. Lando knows he’s romanticised the hell out of his return, but he doesn’t really care. Midterms will set in soon enough, but before then, he’s going to  _ bask  _ in this platonic ideal of an undergrad lifestyle. Is it a crime to be happy to be back? Lando’s ready. Round two at the Ecc. 

“Guess I’ll do some unpacking.” He turns away from the window.


	2. september

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case anyone's wondering, Ecc is based in a nonexistent northern hemisphere anglophone country with an academic calendar modeled after american/british/canadian unis
> 
> (and the reference, when you reach it, is to almost famous, not IASIP)

**Thursday, 5 September, 2019 - Wellington Student Centre**

It’s a trope, the way he and Lando have their first conversation, it’s a god-damned trope straight out of the fanfiction Alex will tell you he didn’t read in high school, and the only saving grace is that they didn’t _ technically _ meet for the first time in a cafe. 

The boy he locks eyes with across The Double Infuser has the most harmless face, but the peace drains from Alex’s mood as he watches the boy look again, _ notice _ him, _ recognise _ him, and—_oh god, is he coming over? Do I _ know _ this guy? _

_ Oh, he’s… english class. Yesterday. _ Alex scrabbles to piece his brain together, in case he has to open his mouth. _ The guy who was sitting across the lecture hall with that disgustingly over-stickered laptop. _

Yesterday, Alex had been rather too preoccupied with wondering if Max was snubbing him by not sitting with him, or if it was normal to ignore your roommate in your one shared class of the semester. He hadn’t been looking around much, preferring to copy down the office hours and contact info of the prof, as well as the booklist for the course,_ Analysis of English Prose_. It's mandatory for every non-STEM student, while the engies and math majors content themselves with some first-year practical writing course, known not-quite affectionately to all liberal arts faculties as _ Scribbling for Idiots. _

Ecclestone is a reasonably large university, a few tens of thousands of students strong, so Alex is surprised he has _ any _overlap with Max. But on the upside, a bigger school means more choice in professors, and after scanning ratemyprof.com, Alex had enrolled with S. Vettel, judged by other students with the comments: “suuuper accessible! youll love him,” and “been in uni three years and never had a prof who cared so much haha,” while several students added “TAKE NOTES. TAKE UR NOTES. THIS MAN ALWAYS FORGETS TO UPLOAD”—hence Alex’s frantic note-taking. 

It was a stretch to say he’d _ particularly _noticed the owner of the over-stickered laptop, but from his front-row seat, it was impossible to miss the faces in the seats at the other side of the lecture hall arc. 

_ Shit, he smiled. He’s heading this way. _

Alex seizes his coffee cup as the boy approaches, taking a sip to ground himself before the stranger crosses the bustling room. Suddenly, he’s in front of Alex, clutching a medium cup that smells more like hot chocolate than coffee. 

“You’re in Seb’s class, right? Pretty sure I saw you there yesterday.” The boy pitches his conversation as if he hasn’t just accosted an innocent cafe-goer whose mouth is full of the dregs of a soy latte.

Alex swallows, leans back in his chair to look up at the newcomer. “Seb? You mean Professor Vettel? How do you even _ know _his first name?”

The boy drops his backpack, with a thud, to the floor beside Alex’s table for two, and invites himself into the opposite chair. “I just dropped into his office hours to tell him I’m shit at writing but I’ll beg for the grade. He’s _ stupid _friendly, though.” The boy leans across the table, with the ease of a regular confidant, and continues. “He told me to call him Seb, but his certificates said Sebastian. Do you want a mint? He gave me like, fifteen.” He reaches into his pocket and draws out a rustling handful of plastic-wrapped candy, and drops them on the table. 

Alex stares at the sweets for half a moment before collecting himself. _ Smile. Look up, eye contact. Ask something, _ he thinks, running through a mental checklist as he kicks himself into gear. _ Don’t say anything about his laptop. _ Alex came here to drink his latte and get social, and he’s just reached the bottom of that latte. 

Alex grabs a mint and unwraps it. “Sure, thanks. You must have a knack for faces though, I don’t remember anyone else I saw in that class.”

“Oh, I hardly remember everyone I see. Only the cute people.” 

Alex looks at him. The boy looks back plainly, as if he didn’t just _ say _that. 

“Thanks? I think. I’m Alex, and you’re…”

“Lando. Not Calrissian. Norris.” He delivers the line like he doubtlessly has his whole life.

Despite himself, Alex laughs a little. “Do people usually break their promises to you? Alter the deals?” 

Lando wrinkles his nose. “Everyone forgets that’s Vader’s line.” 

A pause holds. Alex breaks it. “Why would you tell your brand new prof that you’re going to fail his course?” 

Lando emits a sound that verges on a laugh, propping his chin up on one hand and picking at the paper sleeve of his coffee cup with the other. “So he’ll do everything possible to _ not _fail me. I am—trust me—truly shit at writing—god, I can’t wait until this course is over and I’ll never have to take English again.” He pops the lid off his drink—the sweet steam confirms it is indeed hot chocolate—and blows delicately to cool it. “How about you, though? What’s the vibe you’re picking up?” he adds with a snicker.

Alex tilts his head and shrugs after a moment. “Harmless, probably. I’m an okay writer, but lit analysis—you know. My last English class too, I’m in soc. Second year. You?”

“Sports psych, also second year. You live on campus?” 

“Yup, I’m in Portier. You?”

“I’m off campus with a friend,” Lando explains vaguely. _ No need to _ suggest _ I’ve got affluenza, _ he thinks. “I’ve got a few other friends on campus, I think, but I’m not sure if they’re in your building. Actually, they’re also in the English class! But they’re not much more keen on it than I am, so no real hope there.” Glumly, theatrically, Lando slurps his hot chocolate, but the effect is ruined by the floating whipped cream dotting his nose. Alex hands him a spare napkin.

“If you want any advice, you know, or to compare notes, I can help,” he also volunteers. “If you want.”

“Are you sure? You realise you’ll be spending your energy bailing out a rowboat with cannon-shot damage,” Lando replies, a little incredulously. 

In spite of himself, Alex’s face breaks into the easiest laugh. Lando watches, a touch too interested in this relative stranger’s happiness. 

“No, seriously. It doesn’t hurt me to show you what I’ve already got, right?”

Lando’s eyebrows flicker in some fractional expression that Alex utterly misses, but he stretches his hand across the table. “Here, I’ll give you my number, then just text me and I’ll have yours.” Alex opens his contacts and palms over the phone. It’s handed back to him a moment later, one _ Lando (English) _ contact richer. He taps the name and texts his first emoji, a classic peace sign.

A buzz sounds from Lando’s pocket, and he digs out his phone to add Alex in return. Lando flashes the screen at him a second later. “This, right? Just A-L-E-X?”

“Yeah, nothing fancy. Just make sure you add something so you don’t mix me up with anyone else!”

“Oh, no worries about that. You’re actually the only Alex I know.”

“Wait, really?” Alex asks, incredulous. “I’m _ never _the only Alex someone knows. You’re the first person I’ve met who doesn’t already know like, five Alexes.” It’s stupid, but he’s flattered.

“Lucky me,” replies Lando. He smiles widely across the table. “But if your name was Max, _ that _would be different.” 

“Tell me about it,” Alex groans. “My _ roommate’s _ another Max.” 

“It’s too many! I suppose this just means you’re my one and only.” Lando’s criminally cherubic smile claims his whole face, and Alex can’t bring himself to mind. 

**Tuesday, 10 September, 2019 - Portier Residences**

One week since classes started. Alex has run the whole gamut—or gauntlet, maybe—of the five classes he’s enrolled in this semester. English, with Vettel—Alex struggles to call his prof by a first name just as much as Lando struggles to use their last name. 

Then there’s Logic, with Professor Bottas. Surprisingly, Lando’s also in this class, and had made an unignorable entrance last Friday as he came late, bursting into the crowded lecture hall. They’d made eye contact across the hundred-ish students in the room, Lando raising his eyebrows, then sliding into the closest available front row seat. Professor Bottas, utterly impassive, spared him one look and resumed.

Apart from classes, Alex is unequivocally loving second year. For now, he spends many of his free hours in his room, which has improved remarkably in one week. Last weekend he visited the city farmer’s market, and picked up a ficus and some succulents from the plant nursery. Sure, it’s a little embarrassing and more than a little against dorm rules to haul a whole tree into the residence and up the elevator, but Alex isn’t about to let himself be self-conscious over a plant. The plant deserves better than that.

He hasn’t gotten a shelf to arrange his greenery on yet, so the half-dozen flowerpots are clustered around his window on the floor, and he steps over them every time he gets out of bed. 

The wall post-it collection is growing. 

While following up on his first note, he’d been relieved to find out Max also came from a shoes-off house. _ That would have been a deal-breaker, for sure. _

Max had been telling the truth when he said he was never home. The dorm is where Max sleeps, dumps his backpack, grabs snacks, and heats up microwave meals for himself in between classes, work shifts, and presumably, hanging out with friends. Alex doesn’t particularly approve of Max’s diet, so when he’s got time and he knows Max is in, he’ll plate a small portion of whatever he’s made for dinner, and knock on the door beside his own.

He’s just made a mini-delivery of linguini alfredo and is about to leave the room when Max says, “Wait.”

Alex turns around. “Yeah?”

He spins in his desk chair to look almost accusingly at his roommate. Despite never spending time in his room, Max has managed to mark it as his own—there are clothes and papers on most available surfaces, and a giant whiteboard calendar behind the door, marked with all his work shifts. He’s somehow managed to squeeze a futon couch, some quintessential IKEA piece, beside his own loft bed and the desk structure underneath it. “You never really go out, do you,” Max demands.

‘What? No, I was out last night, I was at Massenet until ten.”

“That’s the library! And I _ know _ you were working on that paper that isn’t due for _ two weeks._”

“And what about it? Have you started it yet?”

“No! Why would I?” Max throws his hands up in a shrug, somehow managing to look mortally offended.

“It’s not a good look to have a fight after being roommates for twelve days, Max.”

Max rubs his forehead. “This isn’t a fight. Don’t go… booking any arbitration meetings with—what’s his name—Stoffel. I’m just saying maybe you should get some _ other _ priorities.”

“I mean, I don’t really mind staying home—” 

Max steamrolls anything Alex attempted to say. “Are you on Bumble?” 

“What kind of question is that? Are _ you? _”

“So you’re not on Bumble, and no, but I’m on—other sites.”

“I did not need to know that!”

“Why else do you _ think _ I need a couch in here? It is impossible to do _ anything _on these fucking ceiling bed things they give us.”

Alex takes a step back and points a fork accusingly at Max. “No more, _ please. _ If you put me on Bumble or any ‘other sites,’ that’s the last plate you’re getting from me.”

The grin he receives in return is shit-eating. “Just looking out for you, what can I say?”

“I’m okay! Everything is peachy!”

“Go out more, _ please, _ you’re making me nervous.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know, you know I’d love to take you out but it’s a fucking Tuesday night. Ask me another time and we’ll go, I don’t know, do a fucking escape room together. I’ll take you out and you’ll get me out.” Max moves to turn back to his desk, but looks back at Alex once more. “Thanks for dinner, by the way.”

Alex closes Max’s door on the way out.

_ He’s not really mad, he’s just… plain. I think that was him being nice. _

Maybe he’ll take Max up on the escape room offer.

**Friday, 13 September, 2019 - Piscine Gym Complex**

“Oh look at you all, all my gorgeous little honey badgers are back together again.” The size of Daniel Ricciardo’s grin rivals the size of the gymnasium he surveys, and he perches halfway up the bleachers, resplendent in a yellow tank top and black shorts. Lando, perched beside him, resembles an overzealous Miles Morales mimicking his hero Peter Parker, if Peter Parker was a tattooed Australian with an impossibly even tan and no practice at shutting his mouth.

“Good turnout this year, coach?” 

“Not the worst,” Daniel comments, scratching a few numbers on a clipboard. “Not like last year, where I got saddled with a reject from the rowing team who made it his goal to retrain _ me _ to coach _ my own volleyball team. _” 

“Hey! It’s not my own fault that the rowing team is some sort of carnival ride where _ you must be this tall to row_,” Lando explains. He reaches over to turn to clipboard toward himself. “These numbers don’t even _ mean _anything. You should let me be coach.”

Daniel glances at his Fitbit. “Seven minutes! Seven minutes into the season before you asked. I’m suddenly owed several beers by _ several _people.” He hops up, clapping Lando on the back. “Tough luck, kiddo! You can’t usurp the daddy badger.” He bounds away and down the bleachers, too far away to hear Lando’s gagging noises.

“Alright, listen up!” Daniel bawls, summoning the attention of the two dozen belligerents hurling volleyballs at each other. “To all the cubs here for tryouts—as long as you’re on this team, you are not an Ecclestone Angel. _ Fuck _ the Ecc Angels. You’re one of Daniel’s Little Honey Badgers and we’re going to _ crush _this season in our claws.”

“Sir,” one of the first years ventures. He glances around nervously. “Isn’t this an intramural team?” 

“Well, yes,” Daniel admits. “But technically no. For the most part, you’re just playing with balls for fun. But if you don’t suck, _ and we’re not going to, _ we’ll play a few tournaments. Are we good?” 

Nods all around. Lando gets up, jogging down the bleachers to join the team, slapping a few familiar hands he hadn’t seen all summer. 

“Hey man, good to see you bud—” fistbumps, hands clapped on his shoulder, and Lando is absorbed into the throng. True, last year it had hurt a little to realise not the hockey team, the football team, nor the rowing team had room to spare for players his size, but when he’d wandered into Daniel’s practice as a last-ditch effort to join _ any _athletics, the volleyball team had taken him in. 

“I’m in _ sports psychology _ ,” he had practically begged last September, ready to get on his knees. “If I don’t get onto a team you’ll jeopardise my _ entire career! _”

“Hmm…” the coach mused. Lando watched him scribble something incoherent on a clipboard. “Have you tried frisbee golf?”

“The frisbee golf season is two months long until the snow hits; when I tell you I’m desperate I mean _ I am desperate! _”

“If you psychoanalyse me, you’re out,” Daniel warned. Since then, Lando learned that anything Coach said with that kind of grin on his face was absolute bullshit. 

In fact, most things he said in general were absolute bullshit.

“I swear, I will park my brain outside the freaking door if that’s what it takes. I’ll be so good. I won’t make a peep,” Lando promised. 

“Alright, it’s a deal then,” grinned Daniel. He slapped Lando on the back and waved him into the gym. “...pray I don’t alter it further.”

A year later, the deal has been long forgotten, and Lando is a permanent installation at Daniel’s Honey Badger Den.

“Let me know,” he pants, “if you ever want input on the effectiveness of positive affirmations applied during the duration of physical exertion as opposed to afterwards,” Lando says between grunts and cooldown stretches. 

“I have been coaching for ten years—” declares Daniel, before being interrupted.

“—and how many seasons have you won?”

“—in four different leagues, and I have had so much fun every single one of them,” he barrels on. “I’m not changing for love nor money, my little honey badger.” He scratches a few more lines on the clipboards. “Alright! Enough stretching for now, it’s almost 8. G’wan, scoot.”

Lando jumps up, heading for the showers. 

“And be back next Tuesday at the same time!”

**Wednesday, 18 September, 2019 - Eau Rouge Arts Hall**

Alex props his chin on his hand and yawns. It’s only two in the afternoon, but he’s not at his sparkiest, and frankly, Professor Vettel’s voice is calm enough to put any tired uni student to sleep.

Lando pokes him in the side. “What’s the get-up for today?” he asks in a whisper.

Both Lando and Alex have both given up any pretense of taking notes in Vettel’s class.

“…so as Akaky’s character is revealed, you can see he’s set up as a ruin, mirrored in his journey beginning from a run-down area of the city. When you read this, it’s supposed to highlight his distance from the brightness of a prosperous neighbourhood, which he…” Professor Vettel is gesturing eagerly at his lecture slides, a bit of chalk crumbled on his beige cardigan. 

The two boys have gravitated toward each other in this class—perks of sitting beside Lando are that Alex doesn’t have to look at _ the laptop _ too much. But he’s tired this week, so he slid into the seat beside Lando wordlessly. His pen has been hovering over a blank notebook page for twenty minutes before Lando nudges him. 

“Oh,” Alex whispers, rousing himself. He leans over in his seat and replies, “job interview. After class.”

“You look great in that shirt,” Lando whispers back. He leans back to his own work and starts scrolling through his old notes.

Alex glances down at his uncreased grey collared shirt. It’s no-nonsense, he’d borrowed Stoffel’s iron to press it. He’s not sure what Lando sees in it, but he nudges Lando back in thanks and straightens his shoulders a little. 

“…which takes us back to Bryden’s essay, where she draws the city as a fabric on which and _ through which _ narrative tells itself. So in your analysis, more than anything, you’re juxtaposing your characters against the environment as a backdrop…”

Lando leans over again. The horrible lecture hall swivel chair creaks eerily and he winces. “What’s the interview for?”

“Campus bookstore,” Alex whispers. “Help my budget a little, right? You know,” he shrugs.

Lando really doesn’t know, he doesn’t know a thing, but he nods anyway. “Good luck with that, then; it’s a good opportunity,” he replies. _ I sound so much like my dad you should just put me in a suit and tie and throw me into an investors meeting, _ he mentally he kicks himself.

He’s sweating a little, but there’s no comfort in Vettel’s lesson in which he can pretend to absorb himself, so he’s left to throw himself at the mercy of _ whatever _ Alex is thinking about his behaviour.

That is, if Alex is thinking about him at all. The concept that he might _ not _ be is somehow worse than anything. 

But— “Thanks,” Alex replies, catching his eye. Or maybe he’s looking right through him. That little smile inhabits his face so constantly that Lando can’t tell if it means anything. _ Does _ anyone _ know if it means anything? _

He spins his seat back, with another terrifying creak, to face forward. Vettel shoots a look at him, but it’s more amused than vindictive, and Lando smiles back crookedly. 

_ I don’t know shit about Alex, do I, _ he thinks, the thought dragging through his head like ticker tape at a stock exchange. His mind is absolutely gone from the lecture, _ Sorry Vettel; _ his focus has left the premises. _ I’ve never had a job interview in my life and mayyyyyybe I should start to feel bad about that. _

His friend, Pierre, is sitting in the row in front of Lando and Alex, diligently poking at his Macbook’s keyboard, transcribing every word coming from Vettel’s mouth._ I’ll beg him for the notes later. On second thought, that won’t be necessary; he’ll share them with me the second I ask. _

“…so geography _ is _ narrative, which means Gogol is painting a—not just narrative as historical context, but representative, maybe more likely reflective of, _ character movement _…”

A few seats over, Pierre and Lando’s friend Charles is sitting beside a man nearly asleep in his seat. _ Probably the Max that Alex told me about, _ Lando thinks, _ since they both came in together. _ His phone is perched on the desk, shamelessly recording the lecture. Charles keeps stealing looks at him, but Lando can’t tell if they’re in disapproval or otherwise.

Alex glances at the clock. There are ten minutes left of class, and he’s feeling a little flutter in his stomach. It would be ambitious to say he’s anticipating his interview. As long as he’s in the lecture hall, everything is stable enough and he can cling onto the fabric of reality, which is a place where thoughts like _ I’m okay, I’m a useful person with potential, I’m not a fucking dumbass and the average person will like me _ are simple enough to nod and agree with. And it’s just a _ campus job _, seriously.

_ I’m okay. _

But he’s never been able to handle trepidation well, and he’s not about to start now. Apprehension is a solvent for stability, and right now Alex’s resolve is tenuous, at best.

_ I’m a very useful person, I have so much potential, _ he repeats in his head.

He takes a deep breath anyway, capturing the scent of eraser crumbs and a hint of Lando’s laundry detergent, and holds the inhale. Lando smells like oranges.

_ They’re going to like me. _

His exhale comes in a burst, and Lando eyes him surreptitiously.

_ Hopefully they’re going to like me. _

_ I can always… transfer schools and move away when my application is rejected, and never show my face in the bookstore again? _

The lecture ends with a clatter of chairs banging against desks, Professor Vettel fumbling with the computer cabinet to reclaim his USB key. 

“Good luck this afternoon, Alex,” Lando chimes as the two pack their backpacks. Alex looks up at him, twisting a smile across his face. If his mind was a little more present, he knows he would have replied, but there are no words in his mouth ready to go. After two intensely _ bad _ wordless seconds of eye contact, Alex jumps to his feet.

Lando watches him bolt from the room.

**Same Day - Wellington Student Centre**

As Alex crosses from the Arts building to the student centre, it would be easy to allow himself to get lost in that early-semester enchantment in the sheer movie-like atmosphere of a university campus. Before the anxiety of the first wave of midterms, before the first autumn chill hits the air, when the sun is still out in the evenings and the robotics club is still sitting at Parabolica Plaza desperately tabling all passersby. It’s the season where the commuting students like to bike rather than take transit, and the campus subway station isn’t yet disgorging embittered students a dozen times an hour. The boldest of the community are doing yoga on the campus lawn, albeit in less picturesque and more mono-racial groups than the recruitment handbook would depict, but even the most demure are blossoming in the pre-autumn sun in a way that will, unfortunately, be abruptly cut off by winter’s approach. 

And Alex, the most demure of them all, almost wants to lean over the railing of the footbridge traversing the campus river to inelegantly release the butterflies and lunch in his stomach. But he’s not immune to vitamin D, the natural light _ is _ boosting his mood, so at the crest of the Esplanade bridge he pauses only to take a grounding look at the water washing below. The water level is at its lowest at this time of year, and half a dozen ducks with iridescent feathers splash among themselves in the low pools of still water along the banks. A hoarse coxswain’s cry drifts downstream from the rowing club. The water looks incredibly calm today. Sometimes on warm evenings, small groups of people will come to swim as the night falls over the city, but Alex has never done that himself. Every January during the uni Winterfest, even smaller groups of incredibly brave people will do a polar dip, and Alex _ certainly _ has no intentions of _ ever _doing that himself. 

He doesn’t throw around the words “white nonsense” very often, but… it’s justified in this case. Anyone who knows Kankomol Albon knows she would kill her son if he died from being swept under sheet ice while swimming when the air temperature clocks in at a smooth -25°. So for Alex, polar dips are strictly out of the question, but he’s heard some of the Finnish profs will participate. 

Alex shudders at the thought and pulls away from the railing. It’s a short walk to the student centre, and he breezes through the doors along with the rest of the class-change rush. 

“Hey! Alex!”

The voice beckons him toward the cafe, and Alex gently extricates himself from the flow of foot traffic to sidle up to the quick-serve window of the Double Infuser. Max peeks out as Alex catches dirty looks at the queued-up customers he just cut through. “Settle down, I’ll just be a second,” he announces loudly. He reaches down through the window and pulls Alex closer. “I was looking for you. Your interview is right now, right?”

Looking up, Alex nods. “I’m _ trying _ to not be nervous.”

Max laughs a little. “Good luck, mate. You’re the smartest choice for any team, _ I’m _ definitely not nervous for you. One second.” He turns away from the window, reappearing a second later, pressing a drink into his roommate’s hand. 

Alex gratefully curls his fingers around the paper cup, popping the lid to be greeted with a soy latte. “Max! That’s too—”

“Don’t thank me, I snitched it out of the line for you,” he interrupts, grinning. “I’ll tell them I spilled it. Sorry it has no cinnamon, I know you take yours with cinnamon but—”

“No, actually, thank you,” Alex smiles back. _ Antonio, _ says the scribble on the cup. Hopefully Antonio doesn’t have a class in the next block, because he’ll have to wait a few more minutes for his drink. Alex takes a sip, and it burns his mouth. It’s perfect. 

Things might be okay. If he doesn’t get the job, he doesn’t have to drop out and change schools. _ You can buy textbooks online, right? _

“I can tell you’re overthinking it right now, so shut up,” Max commands. He grins again. “Go on, get in there.”

He waves Alex away and is bawling “Next!” before Alex has even turned away. 

The drink warms his hands, which are uncharacteristically icy for the season. That was just _ nice _ , he thinks. That was probably Max at his nicest. Alex isn’t sure if he should be surprised that his roommate knew exactly when to double down. Skipping the elevator, he takes the stairs two by two to the third floor. He grabs his phone from his pocket to check the confirmation email one last time. _ Room W327, Campus Bookstore Office. _ It’s down a hallway he’s never been through before, but he checks his watch—2:52—and squares his shoulders.

He knocks on the open door of the small office and pokes his head in. “Hey, Alex here. I’m here for a three o’clock interview?”

**Same Day - Portier Residence**

He pulls on sweatpants and drags himself up the ladder to his bed. _ Finally. _ It’s been a day and a half since his logic lecture this morning. And it’s not even five in the evening.

Alex reaches for his phone, flicking through Twitter and Instagram before remembering why he even wanted it. He sends one text to Max. 

_ Alex _

_ thanks for the good luck latte. I think it worked _

**Same Day - Beau Rivage Apartments**

The pasta on the stove boils over with a catastrophic sizzle, and George springs across the kitchen to rescue it. “Oh, crap,” he fusses, setting aside the lid with one hand, mopping up the spill with a towel in the other. “I think it’s almost ready, Lando,” he calls across the kitchen island. 

“I’ve already got out the dishes and drinks,” Lando replies from the living room, where he’s artfully draped over the arm of the couch, scrolling through Reddit. A few minutes later he sighs, a long huffing exhale containing the day’s woes. “George?” he calls across the wall-to-wall hardwood floors.

“Yes?”

“You know—you know when you meet someone new,” he starts haltingly. George balances two full plates to carry them to the table, and throws him a quizzing look. “When you meet someone new, and you’re _ so _worried they’re going to judge you?”

George sets down the plates and reaches for the can of Perrier at his seat, then cracks it open. “That really doesn’t sound like the Lando I know.”

“I know,” he groans into the couch cushion, “that’s the problem. Like, are you ever just fussed that they’re being critical more than anyone else and they’re noticing all the dumb shit you say, and they won’t think you’re smart?”

“I would simply not say any dumb shit,” George quips, silverware already clinking against his plate. “RIP to Lando Norris, but I’m different.”

Lando tosses his phone away into the couch cushions. “_ Stop _ that, you know what I mean.”

“I don’t think anyone’s going to judge the hell out of you three weeks into the semester,” George says seriously, carefully, after swallowing a mouthful of buttered bread. “And even if they do, why does _ everyone _have to like you?”

“_ Everyone _ has to like me,” Lando assures him, moving to the table and plopping himself into his chair. “And—” Lando hesitates for a second before plunging on, because it’s a year too late to start holding things back from _ George _ of all people— “it’s silly, but I feel like it suddenly matters now.” 

“Lando—you say a lot of dumb shit, but honestly it’s okay, and everyone knows that by now. You’re not mean about it, you’re not cruel to _ anyone _—don’t worry about this.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, trust me on this.”

Lando squishes his fork into the pasta sauce and watches it ooze through the tines. “I hate that as soon as you think you’re growing up, you realise you’re the youngest you’ve ever been in your life.”

“I’ll file that under _ dumb shit_, but boy, that’s true.”

“You think it’ll ever change?”

George smiles a little ruefully. “Absolutely not.”

**Sunday, 29 September, 2019 - Esplanade Footbridge **

Sunday evening. It’s the end of the weekend and the sedate order of a new week should be creeping over the campus, tying a neat bow on whatever revelry ran its course on the weekend. Alex is in his kitchen, putting away the last clean dishes and snapping the lids onto the tupperwares of food he’s prepped for the week. _ There’s nothing like some peace of mind, or some rice bowls to throw in the microwave after a 5:30 lecture when all you want to do is take off your pants and get into bed, but you can’t skip dinner. _ The true meaning of comfort distills itself as one grows up, and Alex knows now that life is always better at the bottom of a Korean beef bowl. 

His phone buzzes and he slips it out of his pocket. 

_ Lando (English) _

_ yooo ik its last minute but if u wanna hang out? im w the boys at the bridge. u should come its just lowkey haha. dont spend sunday night alone at home _

It’s Sunday night, and he’s alone at home, while apparently, some people are outside still clinging onto the last scraps of summertime. 

It’s only seven in the evening.

_ Alex _

_ sure. what’s happening? _

_ Lando (English) _

_ swimmin _

That’s not Alex’s definition of lowkey, but he’s already agreed. He changes from home clothes into a pair of board shorts and a sweatshirt, grabbing his keys and slipping on a pair of flat-soled sneakers. It’s a safe outfit, if he gets ghosted there will be no gut-wrenching walk of shame and loneliness as of some nine year old turned away from the class pool party. Sometimes, he thinks, adulthood is just about being able to cover up when you’ve fucked up. Or been fucked over. He checks himself in the bathroom mirror. He looks… normal, he hopes. The anxious fifteen year old Alex wouldn’t have even agreed to go out, so—_ there’s progress, I guess? _

A few minutes later, there’s no further response from Lando, so he leaves anyway on the short walk from the residence complex to the river.

Upstream of the city, the river eddies around the Esplanade footbridge pylons, sunk in the middle of the waterway. Drawn toward the voices carrying across the water, Alex sees a small group scattered by the water’s edge, but when he scans the faces for the one who invited him, he’s out of luck—until he looks up.

Lando hangs off the side of the footbridge, over the middle of the river where the water is deepest. He’s balancing on the wrong side of the railing but anchored firmly, reaching behind himself to hold on. Beside him, a taller, paler boy wearing sunglasses is also perched on the handrail, but not quite as precariously. Both their shirts are draped on the railing, and Lando, clearly in swim trunks, has already been dunked. A golden sunset is tangling itself in his dripping wet curls, but he shakes them out and leans forward for a glance down at the water, running clear and cool only three metres below. 

“_I am a golden god! _” he cackles, breaking into a laughing fit. 

The boy beside him stretches out a long leg to swat Lando’s ass with his foot. “Go on, jump again then.” 

Lando shakes his head, water droplets flying. “It’s your turn now, George.” 

“It’s a bit cold, mate, I’ll probably just wade today,” George says, wrinkling his nose.

“Aww, that’s two-ply, buddy,” Lando teases, but he shrugs. “Sure, I’ll jump again.”

So he jumps, springing away from the bridge, but before he takes flight he’s seized George’s wrist and yanked him off the balustrade with him and they’re tumbling, sunlit and screaming, into the current below.

Alex doesn’t move as he watches them from the banks, but as they hit the water with a very satisfying _ smack, _ he can’t help his grin. 

“_Fuck _ you, my shades,” George howls the instant he surfaces along with a cloud of bubbles, swiping at his face vainly, but Lando’s not above water to hear it yet. 

The sunglasses surface two seconds later in Lando’s hand, before his head emerges. “Here you go, love you too,” he says, a sugar-sweet smile on his face as he hands them over. George smacks his palm against the water’s surface, but the splash misses Lando, who ducks underwater again and kicks his way over to the banks. 

He must have spotted Alex, since he surfaces as close to him as possible and waves him over. 

“Hey Alex!”  
  


“Hey Lando,” Alex replies, smiling. “How’s the water?

“Not bad,” Lando says, raking a hand through his hair as rivulets run down his legs onto the grass. He’s utterly soaked but still as casual as could be. “Glad you could come, though! My roommate’s here, George—” Lando jerks his thumb over his shoulder at the man now climbing onto the close riverbank— “and Pierre from English, and then his friends Charles and Antonio. At least, I _ think _his name's Antonio. I don’t know him too well.” 

He waves across the river at the three lounging on the other bank in various degrees of shirtlessness. There’s the permanently scruffy yet adorable Pierre in a decidedly unsexy UV-proof swim shirt, and two boys who look so inimitably Southern European that it’s honestly a toss-up about which is named Charles and which Antonio. They both look like they’ve never worn a shirt in their life, and as if they fell, if not from heaven, at least from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

Lando turns back to Alex. “You swim, right?”

He shrugs. “Not much, but I was actually thinking about taking a dip here the other day. A bit awkward to do alone, though, so I haven’t yet.”

“Well, you’re here now,” Lando says warmly, turning his head to flash the most brilliant smile toward him. “Also—can you do a front flip?”

Alex laughs shortly. “My best mate as a kid had a trampoline in his back garden, of _ course _I can do a front flip.”

“Okay, perfect, we’re going to do the most _ flawless _synchro flip ever off the bridge and make George jealous he wouldn’t jump with me,” declares Lando. He dramatically side-eyes George and is flipped off in return. “Your loss, mate!” he calls out as he jogs up the path to the bridge with Alex in tow. 

They catch the attention of the boys on the other riverbank, who wave, while Pierre hoots at them. Charles has dipped his feet in the water, sitting on dry land but leaning back on the heels of his hands, and the alleged Antonio is sprawled out beside him, propped on his elbows and looking for all he’s worth like he’s been misplaced from the Bacchanalia. 

“It’s Alex!” Lando yells down at them, climbing over the handrailing again and perching there while Alex strips off his sweatshirt and kicks off his shoes. "Here, just boost yourself over and stand on the ledge here," he says to Alex, offering his hand. 

It's easier for Alex to swing over the railing than for Lando, thanks to his height, and he's soon comfortably balancing on the ledge. The sun is low in the sky, and this little slice of campus, of the city, of the world, is tinged with gold and flavoured with warmth. The water ripples in a gradient from cool dark blue below them to a shimmering orange in the distance. Alex blinks as he turns to face the setting sun, and all Lando can see is the way the light catches on his impossibly high cheekbones. He doesn’t want to get caught staring though, so he drags his gaze away, only to catch sight of a scar tracing the line of Alex’s collarbone. His stomach twists in a way that he’s unfamiliar with; the thought of injuries doesn’t usually make him squeamish. 

“Okay, I _ hope _ this isn’t too cold,” Alex comments, pulling Lando back to reality. 

“Just remember to jump _ out, _” Lando says, pointing a few metres out from the bridge pilings, “and stay near the centre where it’s the deepest.”

“Have I told you I’m terrified of sharks?” Alex adds casually.  
  


“There aren’t—”

“That was a joke,” he hastily amends, “I didn’t mean it.” He laughs a little uncertainly, but Lando edges over and nudges him a little.

“That’s okay, don’t worry about it,” he says. He grins at Alex, and the air clears. 

“Alright now, stop dilly-dallying!” George shouts up at them from where he’s sitting, wrapped in a towel

_ Shit, I forgot one of those, _ Alex thinks.

From the other bank, Pierre shouts, “You’re breathtaking!” 

Lando points back at him. “_You’re _ breathtaking!” He turns to Alex. “You ready?”

“Jump on _ three_, or on _ go?” _

He shrugs a little, almost bouncing on his toes. “On go, I guess. Count us in, George!” he calls down. 

Before they can think about it, they grab hands, shifting so their now shared balance is at the ready. 

“One!”

Alex isn’t sure if his palm is sweaty, or if it’s Lando’s hand that is damp.

“Two!”

They sneak a last glance at each other, and their mischievous smiles are mirrors.

“Three!”

Lando is acutely aware of the way the sunshine is caught, almost distractingly, in Alex’s eyelashes when he blinks.

“GO!” 

George all but screams at them, and as if they’re a singular organism, the boys break away from the railing and leap into air that has never felt so thin. With Lando’s hand gripped tight, Alex tucks his knees and hurls himself into a well-practiced flip, his skyward leap turning into a slow fall as gravity finally grasps him. 

Their grip breaks when they hit the surface, and Alex cuts into the water at a clean angle, the chill washing over him. He’s lost Lando in the depth, and he kicks even deeper in the sudden silence. When he opens his eyes, he can see the bottom but he turns to look up, gazing at the light filtering through the rippled surface still disturbed from the splash from his jump. It’s _ so _blue, with bits of white flashes scattered on the surface and longer golden beams of light stretching into the depths.

_ Well, I guess I didn’t get ghosted. _ Alex laughs a little, a few bubbles escaping his mouth. _ I’m glad I came. _ He lets the water buoy him up, and the branches of the overarching trees above the river slowly come into focus. They waver fluidly through the filter of the depth.

_ Nine year old Alex would like to know that this is okay. _

When he breaks the water, he won’t be a new person.

_ But I think I’ll be more comfortable with the one I already am. _


End file.
